


Tales from the Multiverse

by AndreaChristoph



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fake Marriage, Light BDSM, Pillow Talk, Scars, Silent pining, Team Bonding, comfort cuddles, platonic Flogan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2019-08-24 03:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16632314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaChristoph/pseuds/AndreaChristoph
Summary: Wyatt hasn't slept for three days, and Flynn has noticed.A collection of Timeless prompts I've filled over at Tumblr (mostly Garcy, but some general/platonic). This summary will be updated when I add new ones - see tags for an overview of what you'll find inside.





	1. Fake Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Lucy chooses to share a hotel room with Flynn (maybe instead of Wyatt). During check in, she introduces herself as Flynn's wife. Flynn can't be cool about it to save his life.
> 
> Not sure if this is what anon meant by "can't be cool about it" but hopefully it hits the mark. This was a fun one, thanks anon!

“When we get to the counter, please let me do the talking.”

“Don’t you always?”

Lucy gives Flynn a look.  “Keep that up and you’re sleeping in the bathtub.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

They approach the front desk somewhat stiffly, Lucy running through all possible ways she can bluff in her head.  She wonders briefly how Wyatt and Rufus are faring over at the adjacent hotel.

“Why are we checking into hotels, anyway?”

“They’re not just any hotels,” Lucy answers.  “The Waldorf and Astoria were some of the finest hotels in New York when they were built.”

“I thought that was one hotel.”

“Later, yes.  Originally it was two, hence us splitting up.  The sleeper agent we took out stayed in one of the two, and hopefully only one of them has the package he mentioned.  Of course, it would have been nice if we could have gotten a few more details before you shot him.”

“Not my fault he decided to run.  So why did you and Rufus draw straws?”

Lucy plays with the edge of her glove, the picture of nonchalance.  “To decide who went with who. Whoever won the draw got first pick.”

“And who won?”

“Where is your head today?  You were standing right there.”

“I was paying as little attention as possible.  I prefer to just go where I’m told.”

“Well, if you must know, I won.”

Flynn looks down at her, eyebrows raised.  “And you chose me? Over Wyatt? Why?”

Lucy shrugs.  She knows she could tell the truth - that she felt he’d be better company to be holed up in a room with for potentially several hours, if not overnight, especially considering Wyatt’s overall foul mood after their argument that morning (and she was really starting to get sick of their daily fights as they passed in the hall, to the point that she tried to sleep in and avoid him most days).  But if she told him the truth, she’d have to explain why she was avoiding Wyatt, and Flynn would no doubt jump at the chance to spend several hours complaining about her former paramour, and that was the last thing she felt like discussing with him. 

“Just felt like a change of pace.”  She doesn’t look at him, but she’s fairly certain she can hear the eyeroll he’s giving her right now.  It’s been hard to miss Wyatt’s extra-foul mood, even to the one who was usually a constant target of it, and he’s no doubt fully aware of why she opted to partner with him.

(If she’s being truly honest, she’s not sure avoiding Wyatt is the entire reason she went with Flynn instead, but she’s not about to tell him that.)

“So what’s the plan?”

“We’ll need enough time to track down the package, and there’s enough hiding places here to keep us busy for hours.  I figured we would just check in for the night and tackle each floor solo, meet in the middle. It’ll be less weird for actual guests to be wandering lost than it would be for strangers who aren’t supposed to be here.”

“And how do you suggest we check in without arousing suspicion?  These aren’t exactly enlightened times, and an unattached young woman checking in with a man who clearly isn’t related to her-”

“Just leave that to me.  Follow my lead.” She plasters a bright smile on her face as she approaches the desk clerk.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Oh thank goodness, honey, we finally found it!”  Her words are aimed at Flynn, who is so taken aback he merely stands next to her, silent.  “Good afternoon. We were hoping to check in.”

“Do you have a reservation?”

“Oh dear.  Honey, did you remember to make the reservation?”

Flynn, thoroughly thrown off and still not quite following her train of thought with this bluff, mutters a quiet, “Ah, no.”

“This man, I swear.”  She laughs brightly at the clerk.  “Well I definitely didn’t marry him for his memory, that’s for certain!  We’re on our honeymoon, you see, and I told him, ‘Garcia, darling, I’ve always dreamed of New York in the winter’, and he always insists on the finest accommodations - I really am a lucky gal - so of course that meant the Astoria, nowhere else would do, but leave it to my silly husband to forget the reservation.”  She grins back at Flynn, who has started to turn a shade of red, before turning back to the desk. “Will that be a problem?”

“Unfortunately we’re fully booked this evening.”

“Oh no.”  She gives the clerk the most theatrical pout possible and Flynn has to focus hard on keeping his face straight.  “Are you sure there aren’t  _ any _ rooms left?”

The clerk looks between Flynn and Lucy, suspicion in his eyes.  “You said you’re married?”

“Newlyweds!”  Lucy can sense the clerk is catching on, and steps closer to Flynn, slipping her arm through his.  Flynn stiffens even more, if it’s at all possible, and Lucy, very subtly, kicks him in the ankle, which motivates him to attempt a smile (which unfortunately looks more like a pained grimace).  “Mr. and Mrs. Garcia Flynn, of the Georgia Flynns. You may have heard of them? They own several hotels on the west coast, doing quite well. Oh, I’m so disappointed we can’t stay, we truly were looking forward to it.  I suppose we could try the Waldorf…”

Luckily, the clerk had perked up the moment she mentioned being wealthy, completely forgetting any suspicion he may have had.  “I must apologize, Mrs. Flynn, I didn’t realize who your husband was. Let me speak with the manager, we may be able to find something for you.”

The clerk disappears through a door behind the desk, and Flynn finally lets out a breath.  Lucy also relaxes, rounding on him the moment the clerk is out of sight.

“When I said ‘follow my lead’, I didn’t mean for you to be a literal statue at my side.  He’s going to know we’re not married if you keep this up.”

“ _ I’m sorry _ , you took me by surprise and didn’t give me any time to mentally prepare-”

“How is this any different than the numerous times you’ve called me your wife to maintain cover?”

“That’s usually all I have to say, that’s how.  This time it’s a goddamn theatrical production-”

They go abruptly silent as the clerk returns with the manager in tow, both of them now smiling brightly.  The manager glances at the hotel log on the desk, flipping pages for a moment, then back up at them. “Newlyweds, huh?  When was the wedding?”

“A week ago,” Flynn answers this time, slipping an arm around Lucy’s waist and pulling her close at his side.  “I finally convinced this gorgeous creature to say yes. We’ve been touring the whole way here, took the train up from...um...”

“Georgia,” Lucy fills in.

“Yes, Georgia.  Tired from the train ride, you understand.  Not to mention my wife hasn’t let me get a good night’s sleep in days.”

Lucy giggles, glancing back at Flynn so she can give him a look, as his attempt at playing the new husband is coming across a bit forced, not to mention the degree of impropriety he’s displaying alluding to their hypothetical sex life.  Flynn returns her look with a smug smile, recognizable as such only to her.

“You must forgive me, sir, but that’s a very interesting Georgian accent.”

Flynn stiffens again, and Lucy can sense his mind racing as he gropes for an explanation.  “Oh, I spent several years overseas in the Balkans, was trying to expand our...”

“Hotel chain,” Lucy again fills in, quieter this time.

“-hotel chain!  Wasn’t able to get it off the ground and unfortunately it’s made a mess of my speech.  Lucky for me, my darling wife found it intriguing, otherwise I’m not sure I’d have caught her eye.”  The manager and clerk glance at each other, and Flynn panics, turns Lucy’s head and plants a brief kiss on her lips.  It’s her turn to stiffen, staring at him with wide eyes as he pulls away, though she quickly resumes her false smile.

Thankfully, the manager appears to be buying it.  “How lovely. We do have one room left, quite popular for honeymooners.  A suite on the top floor, quite spacious, and has a lovely view of the city.  It is, however, on the pricier side.”

“No issue at all!  We’ll take it! I’m so pleased.  Sweetheart, pay the man.” She gives Flynn a sharp elbow, smiling at the clerk.  Flynn smiles thinly at the clerk, and hands him a wad of early 1900s currency. The clerk and manager both smile widely, as there is clearly a generous tip included (in reality, Flynn just didn’t feel like counting it out).

“There are some services we also offer to newlyweds, if you’re interested.”

Lucy is about to decline, then realizes the character she’s been playing would likely be over the moon about this development and kicks herself mentally for it.  “How lovely, what would those be?”

“We prepare the room for your stay, including a complimentary bottle of champagne.  Would you be interested?”

She’s not sure what exactly ‘prepare the room’ means, but she grins and nods.  “Of course. We’d be crazy to say no. When can we go up?”

“I will send staff up immediately.  If you could give us ten minutes?”

“That’s no time at all, and after that train ride I could use a walk.  Please take your time.”

The clerk hands them a room key, wishing them a pleasant stay and offering another congratulations.  They wander around the lobby, arm-in-arm, Flynn surreptitiously checking his watch every few minutes.  The ten minutes to kill gives them time to check the lobby for the package, as best they can while maintaining cover.

“I wonder what story Wyatt and Rufus went with,” Lucy whispers, to which Flynn snorts.

“Probably the usual.  Plantation owner and manservant.”

“Poor Rufus.  He puts up with the regressive bullshit like a champ- oh!  Hello again!”

The manager is approaching, grinning at them.  “Your room is ready, Mr. and Mrs. Flynn. 17th floor, room 1701.  We do apologize for the wait. The Astoria wishes you a pleasant stay, and congratulations again on your nuptials.”

“No problem at all, you’ve been so accommodating, hasn’t he, honey?”

“As you say, darling.”

They reach the 17th floor after some time, the elevator absolutely crawling it’s way up, and Flynn slides the key into the lock of room 1701.  Once inside with the door closed, they both let out a sigh of relief, smiling at each other briefly before Lucy looks to the side and her face falls.  “Oh.”

Flynn traces her line of sight to further in the room, where a blanket of rose petals has been scattered across the floor and bed, an iced bucket of champagne sitting at the foot of the bed on a tray with two crystal flutes next to it.  Lucy crosses the room and grabs the bottle.

“Well that’s an expensive vintage.”  Flynn takes the bottle from her hands to open.  “Hey, what are you doing?”

“...I thought that was obvious.  Having a drink.”

“We have a job to do,” she scolds, and his only response is to finish popping the cork.

“And we can start that after a drink.  I need one after that ridiculous production.”

He pours two flutes and they stand near the window, looking out over 1901 New York.  Lucy has to admit - this isn’t what she expected when she opted to room with Flynn, but it also isn’t an unwelcome development.  And much more enjoyable than the prospect of more arguing with Wyatt would have been.

“Should we toast?” she asks Flynn, a small genuine smile on her face that he returns.

“To my beautiful wife, the finest actress in all of New York.”

“And to my husband - if he can’t act, then at least he can stand there and look pretty.”

They laugh and clink their glasses together before turning back to the window.  Both are thankful that the other can’t see them blushing.

Yes, she expects this will be a  _ much _ more enjoyable night than anticipated.


	2. "I want you to leave marks."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BE FOREWARNED - this is pure smut with virtually no plot. (And I've not written smut in quite a few years so oh god please go easy on me)
> 
> Tumblr prompt: "I want you to leave marks".

“Oh god, I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

Flynn leans up on one arm, already kicking himself for the hiss of pain that caught Lucy’s attention.  She’s blushing now, and he can see that familiar uncertainty - with herself, with the situation, with everything - flooding back into her eyes, an uncertainty she doesn’t typically aim in his direction.   _ Well done, Garcia, you’ve made everything go to shit. _  It hadn’t even hurt, really - it certainly wasn’t the first time a woman had tangled her fingers in his hair and gripped tight the moment he found just the right spot.

“I’m fine,” Flynn murmurs, shuffling up on the bed so they’re face to face once more (as much as he’s loathe to vacate his position between her thighs).  He draws the loose hair from her face and leans down to kiss her once more, soft and reassuring. “You just surprised me, Lucy, that’s all.”

He can see her face is calm, her eyes still closed as he draws back and looks at her, as if she’s relishing the kiss.  But the moment her eyes open she’s back to the same unsure Lucy.

“We can stop,” he tells her, smiling, though his body screams at him in silent protest of that idea, which he staunchly ignores.

“No,” she says quickly, shaking her head.  “No, I...I want this, I want to keep going, I just-”

“Lucy, you didn’t hurt me,” he says again, more emphatic than before.  “I’m fine. And I’ll be fine if we stop, if that’s what you want.” A smile - or perhaps more a smirk than anything - tugs at his lips.  “Hell, if I’m being honest, it was a turn on.”

That gets her attention, and she stares at him silently, mouth slightly agape.  Her worried expression fades shortly thereafter and she smiles, eyebrow raised. “Really.”  It’s not a question; she clearly doesn’t believe him.

“Yes, really.”  He can sense her uncertainty turning quickly into playful skepticism and he slides closer to her, trailing the back of his fingers down her arm.  He can feel the goosebumps rise on her skin, and notes with some satisfaction the slightest shiver that runs through her. “In fact,” he whispers, meeting her eyes again, and this time he knows she can see the barely restrained lust there, “I want you to leave marks.”

Unexpectedly (and perhaps a tiny blow to his pride), that gets a quiet laugh out of her.  “What, you want a hickey? Itching for some high school nostalgia?”

He doesn’t bother telling her he spent most of his high school years buried in his textbooks and abstaining from friends, let alone girlfriends.  “Well, that’s one way.” He leans down and kisses her again, this time hungry, urgent, as if he can’t get enough of her.

She breaks the kiss abruptly to push him back, her hands firm against his shoulders, and he worries for a moment that he’s gone too far in some way - but she continues to push him, until he’s laying back against the mattress and she can slip on top of him, a leg to each side and her hips resting just above his.  And then she shifts slightly, making him groan audibly, which he quickly tries to silence, until he notes the smirk she’s now sporting and the way she’s  _ still _ moving her hips.  She knows what she’s doing, she knows it’s pushing him toward the edge, and she seems to be enjoying the effect it’s having on him.

“You want marks, huh?” she murmurs, dragging her nails gently down his bare chest.  He rests his hands on her thighs, debating his next move, when she makes the choice for him, gripping each of his wrists and pinning his arms back against the mattress.

_ Well this is an interesting turn of events. _  Of all the things he would guess about the mild mannered historian just by appearances, the last thing he expected to learn was that she had a dominant streak.  

Not that he minds at all, of course.

“You want to know you’re mine everytime you look in a mirror,” she whispers as she leans down, her breath hot against his cheek.  Flynn struggles for a response but can’t seem to find the words, a fact that doesn’t seem to bother Lucy, as she leans down further and nudges his head to the side with her own so she can more easily reach his neck.  She presses a brief, gentle kiss to his jawline before trailing the tip of her tongue lightly down the curve of his neck, finishing it off with a light nip just above the scar he’d received the night she’d first met him.

“You’re not gonna leave any marks doing that,” he teases quietly, eyes still closed as he struggles not to shiver.  For some reason, maybe part of the game they’re playing, he doesn’t want her to know what sort of effect she’s having on him.  He’s certain she knows (considering certain current physical attributes, how could she  _ not _ ), but for the moment it’s still a level playing field as they trade teasing barbs back and forth.  He knows it’ll just goad her on further. Really, he’s counting on it.

She lets off on her tight grip of his left wrist slightly and he tries to move it, only to have her push it back down firmly, telling him in no uncertain terms that she’s in charge whether or not she’s actually touching him.  He complies, amused, before gasping sharply, as she grips his manhood firmly with the same hand she’d just been pinning his wrist down with. But she doesn’t move, only watches his face, eyebrow raised. He feels the uncomfortable, throbbing burn there, almost bucks his hips in response but manages to maintain his composure.  She’s upping the stakes and he needs to consider his next move carefully.

“What do you want Flynn?” she practically purrs, finally stroking him once.  He swallows heavily and can feel his heart beating faster, but manages to lay still, right up until she moves her hand once more, and then he can’t help it.  A quiet moan escapes, barely audible, but he glances up at her and sees her watching him keenly. “Is this what you want?”

“I want what you want,” he manages to whisper, and feels her hand tighten in response.

“I asked what  _ you _ want.”

She knows what he wants.  He knows she does. It’s written all over his face, in every move he makes, every word he manages to get out, every sound that escapes unbidden.  But that isn’t the point. The point is to make him beg. 

For a moment he considers acquiescing, but he can tell that’s not really what she wants.  Push and pull. Give and take. Lead and be led. The nature of their whole relationship, as it always has been - first as enemies, then uneasy allies, and finally here and now, when she knows his heart is hers, all of him is hers, and she doesn’t fear losing what they have.  She trusts him with her heart, as he trusts her with his. They were always in sync enough they could speak with just a look, but somehow, now that they’ve finally given in to the unspoken feelings between them, it’s almost as if he can read her mind, and he has the suspicion she feels the same about him.

Rather than beg, he instead sits up abruptly, and she’s taken off guard, enough so that he can easily slip his other wrist out of her grip (not that he couldn’t always have done so if he truly wanted to, but where’s the fun in that), and wraps both arms around her, hands resting against the bare skin of her back.  He kisses her again, roughly, biting gently at her lower lip as he pulls away. She leans her head back as he continues to trail kisses down her neck and sighs, making a small noise of pleasure in the back of her throat.

“You want to know what I want?” he says in between his ministrations to her sternum.  She nods breathlessly, and he cups the back of her head and pulls her forward against him slightly, resting his lips against her temple.  “I want to  _ fuck  _ you, Lucy Preston.”

She moans softly at that, and he grins, feeling a hint of pride at what he’s managing to do to her with just his words.  She shifts in his lap so she can support her own weight and reaches one hand down between them, and again he can feel her hand gripping him, this time maneuvering things into place, and then finally she sinks down again and  _ oh god- _

She doesn’t give him any time to process that she’s just taken his full length at once, immediately rocking her hips against his.  She’s so tight and wet that he can barely handle it, and he shuts his eyes, trying not to lose it even as she continues to move in his lap, her hands gripping his biceps tightly.  She bites her lip, her head dropping back again, and that’s when he loses all semblance of self control. Lucy looks briefly surprised as he moves abruptly, extricating himself from her as he lays her gently back against the bed, and she looks disappointed at the broken contact for only a brief second before he enters her once more.  This time she gasps, the gasp quickly turning into a moan as he settles into a smooth rhythm.

“Yes…” she breathes, and he can feel her fingers tighten against his back.  She wraps both legs around the back of his knees for leverage, arching her back to meet each of his thrusts equally, and as he moves faster, harder, he can feel one of her hands gripped against his ass, as if she can’t get enough, as if she’s begging,  _ demanding _ more of him.  He’s only too happy to comply, and he can see the flush spreading down her neck to her chest, can hear each gasping breath she’s taking, and he knows she’s close to the edge as a moan builds, first quiet and then finally with total abandon as she comes, and as she does her nails dig painfully into his shoulders, and then more unexpectedly, he feels a sharp pain as she sinks her teeth into his shoulder - not enough to break the skin or injure him, but just enough to muffle her own cries of ecstasy as she rides the waves of her climax.  Any sort of pain he may feel from it disappears as he finally finishes shortly after her, his thrusts slowing as he does so. He finally falls still, resting his head against her shoulder and shaking slightly as he catches his breath, completely spent. He feels her fingers gently threading through his hair, soft and affectionate, and he leans up to kiss her once more. It isn’t as urgent, but no less yearning, hoping that she can sense everything he’s trying to say without saying it.  _ I love you, I love you, I love you. _

He’s half asleep while laying next to her when he feels her touch his shoulder, tracing something there.  He glances down out of the corner of his eye and sees a sharp red welt on his shoulder, right where she bit him.  He snorts softly, amused, and she gives him an almost bashful smile as she whispers, “Oops.”

“I did say I wanted you to leave marks,” he mumbles, half asleep, drawing her closer against him with one arm.  She settles into the space against his side, laying her head against his chest with one arm stretched out over him.

He’s nearly fast asleep when he hears it, so quiet he almost thinks he dreamt it.

“I love you too, Garcia.”


	3. “How’d you get that scar?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How’d you get that scar?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't actually a prompt, this was more the result of a late night Garcy Fam Discord chat. (For context, Goran Visnjic has a relatively visible scar on his abdomen, so we were theorizing how they'd have explained the scar had Flynn gotten shirtless in the show ever.)
> 
> I also didn't edit this one too heavily because I'm trying this new thing called "It's a short one-shot, don't overthink it."

“Woah.  Where did you get this?”

Flynn debates just kissing Lucy again to change the subject, but suspects she’ll see through that.  He’d been so caught up in their current activities (namely, the way her cold fingers felt against his chest as she slipped his t-shirt over his head) that his scar had completely slipped his mind.  It hadn’t been an issue to that point, seeing as Flynn didn’t make a habit of losing his shirt if he could help it, but when she’d dragged him to his room post-mission and shoved him on the bed….well, he was hardly going to say  _ no _ to her ripping his clothes off.

“Flynn?”

“Just a battle wound,” he murmurs, cupping the back of her head to pull her close again so he can kiss her.  Lucy’s curiosity is clearly battling with her physical urges, and Flynn can tell (considering how distracted she is) that she’s debating whether she prefers her curiosity or her lust satiated.  Unfortunately for Flynn, curiosity wins out. He loves her staunchly academic mind, but sometimes it was incredibly inconvenient for his own wants and needs.

“What’s the story?” she says, pulling back so she can examine the scar and tracing her fingers down the rough jagged path it leads across his abdomen.  

“Honestly, it’s boring-”  He tries again (in vain) to kiss her, but this time Lucy leans away as he leans in.

“No, let's hear it.  Was it during the war?”

“Yes.”  Well, he was  _ technically _ telling the truth.

“How’d it happen?”

He sighs.  Clearly, he’s not getting out of this.  “I was stabbed.”

Lucy slips off his lap and settles herself next to him on the bed, chin propped on her hand.  “I feel like there’s a story there.”

“Not a great one.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”  He can see it in her eyes though. No matter how the next hour went, she’d be distracted the whole time by this niggling curiosity in the back of her mind, desperate to know the story but respecting his boundaries enough not to demand he tell her.

He sighs and sits up.  “It’s not that. It’s just...embarrassing, really.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow.  “How could a war wound possibly be embarrassing?”

He can feel his face burning and looks away.  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a war wound.”

“...meaning?”

“I was in Dubrovnik on leave, and...got in a bar fight.”  He shrugs. “I had a height advantage, but the other guy had a switchblade.  Spent the rest of my leave in the hospital recovering. My parents were less than impressed when they heard.”

“What was the fight over?”

He swallows.  “If you must know...football.”

Lucy stares at him, her eyes drifting to the scar and then back up to his face.

Then she bursts out laughing.

Oh good.  His face is burning even more now.

“I’m sorry, god, I’m so sorry,” she says, trying to get her laughter under control.  “It’s just...the image of tough, no-nonsense Garcia Flynn getting into a drunk barfight and then ending up scolded by his parents is…”  Once more she breaks down in giggles.

Flynn reaches for his shirt, which sobers Lucy quickly.  

“Woah, hey, what are you-”

“I assumed-”

“Oh, Flynn.”  She smiles, rolling her eyes.  “God, as if hearing that story would make me want you any less.”  She trails her fingers down the scar once more, smirking as she leans in to kiss his neck.  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you girls like a bad boy and scars are sexy?”

He smiles and drops the shirt.  “Prove it.”

“Oh,  _ gladly. _ ”


	4. "Stay close, please"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was: "Stay close, please."

Flynn can hear the redcoats gaining on them without even having to look. Part of the issue, of course, is that Lucy is hauling around an extra five pounds of heavy cotton dress made only heavier by the mud coating the hem, and she also stands about a foot shorter than Flynn, and therefore he can't actually sprint as much as he'd like to (well, that, and he likely would end up tangled in the trees - the height wasn't always all it was cracked up to be).

A musket ball whizzes over their shoulder, the footsteps falling away as those in pursuit pause to reload, and Flynn finally spots a hint of good luck - a small crevasse a few feet away that blends in perfectly with the forest around it. It doesn't appear to be particularly deep either - just perfect for two people to tuck themselves into long enough to lose the trail. 

“Lucy, there!” He points, and as soon as Lucy sees what he’s gesturing to she blanches, swallows, and shakes her head. 

“I-....I can't.”

“Lucy, they'll catch up any minute, we need to hide or we're going to get caught. And you know as well as I do the damage a 17th century musket ball would do to a 21st century immune system.”

She seems to get the point and finally takes Flynn's outstretched hand, reluctantly allowing him to lead her over. He helps her crawl inside and then quickly slips in himself, just in time to once more hear shouts drawing close. 

Flynn looks over at Lucy next to him, and sees her eyes are wide like a deer in headlights, and she's breathing far harder than she should have been for the speed they were going. 

And then he remembers. The car accident. The panic. Tight spaces that she can't escape from. Of course.  _ Of course. _

“Hey, hey, you're fine,” he whispers, placing his hand over hers and squeezing it for reassurance. She quickly entangles her fingers with his, gripping tighter than Flynn would have thought possible from her. The guards have finally caught up and are quietly doing a sweep of the vicinity to make sure they actually got away, thankfully nowhere near their hiding place. 

“How much longer?” Lucy whispers, her eyes shut tight. He's impressed with how well she's doing considering the circumstances. It didn't get much more enclosed than a hole in the ground. 

“I'll check,” he replies, shuffling away from her for a better vantage point - or would have, except he feels Lucy's fingers gripping the sleeve of his coat and he can feel a slight tremor in her touch. 

“Stay close, please,” she pleads, her eyes wide, and Flynn acquiesces, sliding back over to Lucy. She's looking at him in sheer panic, and he sighs and extends his arms. 

“Come here.”

Lucy looks at his arms for a moment, seemingly debating whether or not to take the gesture, then decides to hell with it and shuffles closer. Flynn wraps her in a tight embrace, holding her against his chest.  He can feel her struggling to calm herself, as she takes deep, measured breaths in between her near-hyperventilating gasps. “I’ve got you, Lucy. You’re safe.” A minute or two passes before he feels the tension leave her body, and she relaxes against him.

Flynn inclines his head to look back out and sees the red coats have departed, leaving silence in their wake once more.  “Lucy, it’s clear.”

“...okay.”  Her voice is small, and she’s still clinging to his coat in a white-knuckle grip.

Flynn eases himself back out of the crevasse, taking care to stay connected to Lucy at all times to reassure her he was there and wouldn’t let anything happen to her.  She crawls out behind him in a hurry, still tightly grasping his hand.

“Do you need a minute?” Flynn asks her softly, and she nods.  “Okay.” He seats himself on a nearby log and pulls her to sit beside him, wrapping his arms around her shoulders again.  “We can take all the time you need. Wyatt and Rufus can wait.”

She sighs, this time relaxed, relieved, the fight or flight gone out of her.  “Thank you,” she whispers, resting her cheek against his shoulder, eyes closed again but face calm.  “You’re always there for me, Flynn.”

“Anytime, professor.”

He hopes she understands what he’s actually trying to say, reading between the lines of his casual response.

_ I will always be there if you need me. _


	5. "You haven't slept in three days, and I'm seriously considering drugging your coffee."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You haven't slept in three days, and I'm seriously considering drugging your coffee" for platonic Flogan.
> 
> God I love team dynamics that aren't just "Lucy and ____". Especially these two. They could be such a good team if they'd just get aloooooong~

It’s been two weeks since they were visited by the futures.  Two weeks that Wyatt Logan has spent slowly trying to re-adjust to being without Jessica.

He’d always wanted a family.  He’d not had much of one growing up, and was determined to correct all the mistakes his father had made on him (or at least he had been, before he realized he was just like his dad).  And so while the prospect of sudden fatherhood looming on the horizon had terrified him right out the gate, he’d also been warming up to the idea. A small human with his blue eyes and Jessica’s golden blond hair.  He didn’t realize how much he wanted it until it was ripped out of his hands, and the idea of there one day being a child out there who thinks he’s as much of a deadbeat dad as his own father was is killing him a little.

But even setting aside the baby, he can’t help missing his wife.  His traitorous, secretive, beautiful, funny, tough wife. He can smell her on his pillows, keeps tripping over her clothing laying on the floor, and can’t stop flipping through photos they’d taken together over the past few weeks - making up for lost time, he’d said, and while it wasn’t the case for her, Jess had humored him.  He’d even taken a photo of her first sonogram, just to glance at it during his downtime. Instead it had become a painful reminder of his loss.

And rather than get better over time, things only got worse and worse.  At first he’d half-hoped (not half-expected, as he wouldn’t be so foolish as to think he knew anything about the motivations of this version of his wife) that she would soon be back, having had a change of heart about where her loyalties were, but that hope was dying a fast death.  Most recently he’s started to have recurring nightmares, all of the night he lost Jessica thanks to his own pigheaded stubbornness and stupidity, and in each one he returns just a fraction too late. In each one he watches her die, over and over again. In one of them, he’s the one who grips her neck while she claws at his wrists, her eyes begging him to let go.

After that one, he stopped sleeping.  He’d been getting by on a steady diet of catnaps (never deep enough to dream, he makes sure of that) and slamming back near-constant mugs of coffee.

It’s only once he misses an easy shot on a mission - because he couldn’t steady his shaking hand, and couldn’t quite make his eyes focus - that he realizes there’s a problem.  He argues with Flynn and Agent Christopher, defending himself for the missed shot that had led to a stray bullet grazing Lucy’s arm. He knows he’s in the wrong, knows that everything they’re saying is true, but he’d never been good at taking critique, not since his father had towered over him and shouted obscenities in his face, telling Wyatt how grateful he should be to have a roof over his useless head.  His arguing is for nought in the end, as Agent Christopher tells him he’s being held back at the base until he’s gotten at least one full night’s sleep.

That was three days ago.

He’s sitting on the couch, watching an old Sean Connery Bond movie, when Flynn seats himself on the couch next to Wyatt (or, more accurately, as far from Wyatt as he can be without being off the couch entirely).  They sit in silence for a beat, then Flynn turns his head and asks, “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Wyatt shrugs.  This isn’t particularly a conversation he feels like having.  “Just can’t sleep.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

Wyatt reaches for the remote and pauses his movie, then turns to Flynn.  “What do you want from me, Flynn?”

“For you to get eight hours of uninterrupted rest,” Flynn immediately fires back, his tone matter-of-fact.  “I need someone watching my back out there and your talents are wasted sitting here doing nothing.”

Wyatt blinks.  Despite having come from Flynn and therefore automatically having suspect motivations, it sounds almost like Flynn had...paid him a compliment?

(In Flynn’s way, anyway.)

“You haven’t slept in three days,” Flynn continues, leveling his gaze at Wyatt, “and I’m starting to seriously consider just drugging your coffee.”

That gets a smile out of him (or, more precisely, a smirk).  “I could go for a drugged coffee right about now, to be honest.”

“What’s keeping you awake?” Flynn asks him, more gentle this time, and for once Wyatt doesn’t automatically feel defensive.

“Jess,” is all he replies, lifting the remote to press play once more.  He can still feel Flynn’s eyes on him regardless.

“And the baby?”

“And the baby.”

They sit in silence for the rest of the movie, arms crossed and unmoving.  Neither wants to put to words what they both realized at much the same time.  Both of them had lost their wives. Both of them had lost their child. Two sides of the same coin, but Wyatt’s ghosts were still out there haunting him.  Maybe Flynn had managed to move on in some way (or maybe move forward was more accurate), but Wyatt was still deep in the thick of it.

Flynn stands as the credits roll and crosses in front of the TV to head back to the kitchen - but he pauses briefly to set a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, a small gesture of wordless support from someone who’s gone through it before, before he continues back to wherever it is that Flynn skulks off to between missions.

That night, feeling a little less adrift and alone, Wyatt finally sleeps.    


The next morning he makes coffee for the team, having woken bright and early.  Flynn joins them last, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and Wyatt hands him a coffee wordlessly, making brief eye contact as he gives him a small nod.  A hint of a smile tugs at the edge of Flynn’s lips but never quite surfaces, and he gives Wyatt a nod in return. The rest of the team doesn’t notice the interaction (beyond their surprise that Wyatt would do anything benevolent for Flynn), but something in the air has changed.  A little less unbridled animosity. A little more team spirit. And on the mission that follows, the two men work more in sync than they ever have before.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr is x-voyevoda, should anyone wish to throw a prompt my way. :)


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